


Of Crossed Daggers

by AccioRavenclaw (Elvishdork)



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: All Characters (mostly) - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Multi, Post main quest, The Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Thieves Guild
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2020-12-07 16:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20978594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvishdork/pseuds/AccioRavenclaw
Summary: “Will you be a hero whose name is remembered in song throughout the ages?  Or will you merely fade from history, unremembered?”With her destiny as Dragonborn fulfilled, Mabrel finds herself at a bit of a loss.  Before the whole swirl of the dragon crisis whisked her towards her destiny, she had come to Skyrim to locate the Thieves Guild.  With Alduin defeated, Mabrel can finally put the title of Dragonborn in its place.  She can get back to what it is she does best: Thieving.But life doesn’t seem any less chaotic than when the World-Eater saved her from her untimely death.  No, a series of paths are opening themselves to her.  The question is, which path will she ultimately walk?  Who is she really: Nightingale or Listener?





	1. Chapter 1

When she enters the Bee and Barb it is well into the night, long past supper yet the hall is still crowded with locals seeking out mead along with the daily dose of rumor and news.

She keeps her hood pulled up over her hair and makes her way to the counter where the innkeeper, an Argonian, is wiping away the last occupant’s mead stains. “Can I help you?” She asks. 

“Yes, whatever you have left of what you served tonight and a drink, please.” Mabrel replies, placing several septims on the counter between them as she takes her seat. 

“Right away.” She says, taking the coin and signaling to another Argonian to serve her.

A tankard of ale and a bowl of cabbage stew is soon placed before her. She eats quickly because she is famished, the toll of the day’s travel. As she eats, however, her ears strain to pick out voices between the other occupants who are busy speaking around her; all trying to speak over one another and be heard above all the rest.

Her task is not impossible; for most are speaking about the summons of the Greybeards even after the months of its happening. They talk about the time the Thalmor were in the Ratway. They talk about dragon attacks on the roads. They talk about how long the truce will last before the war resumes. Some even talk about the Dragonborn.

The Greybeard’s summons, the business of being _dovahkiin_, having a destiny larger than herself: It never sat well with her.

None of it is why she came to Skyrim.

And now it’s all over. Alduin the World-Eater is no more. Her destiny is done: there’s nothing left for her to fulfill.

Bards sing her praise, but no one bothers to remember her face nor her name. Except those in Whiterun. She’s drawn too much attention to herself there than she ever wanted. No, people just remember her by the mask that now sits in her pack. Krosis – she shrouded herself in sorrow alright.

“Excuse me, Ma’am.” Mabrel says, catching the attention of the innkeeper. “Have you heard any news of work needed around the city?” 

“If you’re looking for work, then look out for Brynjolf. I hear he’s looking for help at his stall in the marketplace.” 

It sounds good to her, the market is probably the quickest way for her to familiarize herself with the state of the city. The last time she was in Riften she had the task of finding Esbern. After the fight with the Thalmor down in the Ratway, she had left the city quickly. She hasn’t been back since. 

“What kind of work?” She asks. The last time she had spoken to him, she’d been tasked with relocating a shop’s ring into a Dunmer’s pocket. It was relatively easy work. She remembers that he had been impressed and offered her a possible invitation into the local guild. Too bad the business with the Thalmor had prevented that.

“Ask him yourself.” She says, “Come morning he’ll be in the first stall on the right just outside the doors. Can’t miss him.”

Mabrel thanks her and returns to her soup.

It isn’t until a voice behind her addresses her directly. "Hm. You're not from around here. Imperial spy perhaps?"

She turns around in her stool, soup spoon still in hand, and eyes the speaker: A Nord, grey-bearded, balding, and rather well dressed. “No sir, just a traveler.” 

“What brings a Breton to Skyrim?” The Nord asks, eyes narrowing.

“Just passing through, sir.” Mabrel answers. Quietly she places the spoon on the counter, her hand hovering there.

“Afraid to answer the question?” The Nord asks, loudly. “Got something to hide?”

The bar around them grows quiet. Others, who haven’t caught on to the growing scene, still chat and drink. The bartender nervously cleans out a glass. She keeps her tone even, “Is there a reason for this interrogation? My soup is getting cold and I don’t see what business you have knowing my affairs.” 

“Mind your tongue, you’re speaking to a veteran. I am Vulwulf, patriarch of the Snow-Shod family. Now I want to know what some stranger with a Cyrodilic accent thinks they’re doing in Riften.”

“I’m Mabrel. I am in Skyrim for it is the homeland of my father and forefathers.” She replies.

“Skyrim belongs to the Nords.” 

“My father was a Nord.” 

“Pfft. Half-breed.” Vulwulf scoffs.

“I beg your pardon?” The words leave her lips before she can bite her tongue. 

“What? You want to settle this like real Nords? 100 gold says I send you packing to whatever land you came from.” 

She stands from the bar, the wooden stool screeching across the floor. “You’re on,” she snaps. She punches him, hard enough to make him stagger back several feet. 

Her hands rise in defense as a large swing comes her way. _Whack_, against her forearm. Her feet move as a right hook comes after, missing it by mere seconds. As his hand comes down she strikes him fast: one, two. This time he doesn’t flinch. A power swing comes from her right, she swerves to avoid it. 

The tide turns as his foot comes down on hers. She’s mid sway, can’t catch her balance and can’t do anything as his punch knocks her ear. Her head rings, but she keeps her arms up. Another hit, a crunch in her nose. Another hit and another; and it feels like something gives in her ribs. 

At some point she hits the ground. Her hand reaches to her nose – comes back red. Two pairs of hands haul her to her feet, drag her out the door, and toss her on her ass. The cold cobblestones scrape her palms as she makes the effort to catch herself. _Don't be so rash,_ the echo of her father rings in her ears. _Though I guess you can't really help it. You're my daughter after all._

Behind her she hears the clatter of the contents of her quiver tossed into the street behind her. It pulls her from the ghost of memory.

“Wasn’t worth the coin.” She hears someone say as she comes to her senses. Her hand goes to her belt: her coin purse is gone. She lets out a vile curse.

Someone laughs ahead of her. “My, my, lass. Don’t let Maramal catch you saying that. Or he’ll give you an earful.” She turns around at the words, sees a man with long red hair kept loose to drape across his shoulders. _Brynjolf_. She wipes the blood that’s been dripping past her lips and pinches her nose. “Though you look as though you’ve already gotten quite the ear full tonight, eh?” He offers her a hand, which she accepts as she’s hauled to her feet.

“I guess you could call it that.” Mabrel replies, retrieving her quiver and the handful of stray arrows.

He chuckles lightly. “Long time, no see, lass. So what brings you to Riften? Hopefully it’s not more Thalmor.”

“Thankfully not.” She replies. “I’m looking for more work, if you have any jobs like last time we spoke.”

“Quite honestly, I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again after the circumstances under which you left. And word travels fast lass, you’ve been very busy making a name for yourself as a dragon slayer of legend.”

“It wasn’t a job that could last forever.” She replies. “Give it enough time, no one will remember a red-headed Breton. Besides, I hear the Dragonborn always wears a mask these days.” She watches as his lips pull upwards.

“You’re certainly full of surprises. Come down to the Ragged Flagon, my previous offer still stands.” Then he walks past her, like she’s anyone else on the street. Their conversation here done until they meet again in the Ratway.

Mabrel pulls herself together and heads for the stairs under the bridge. She knows where to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering that I've had bits and pieces of this written out and collecting dust in my hard-drive since 2016, I figure now is a good time to polish it up and start posting it in-between projects.


	2. Chapter 2

“Just poison the mead.” Mabrel mocks, wiping soot and scorch marks out of the bracers. “Never mind the crazy old man living under the place. Oh no. It’s just him, a hoard of skeevers, and a handful of frostbite spiders. No big deal, not really worth mentioning.”

There’s enough venom in her voice to rival that in the bottle she pulls from her pocket. She pulls the cork and gets to work poisoning the nest, careful to leave just enough to poison the vat of mead: The real reason she’s down in this skeever hole. 

Satisfied with the work on the nest, she takes the battered leather journal left on the alchemy desk. She'll bring it up to Mallus later. 

She works her way through the rest of the cavern. Until she finally emerges in the brewery. She quickly climbs the steps and works the heavy lid open. With one hand on the lid and balancing over the edge, she pulls the remaining poison from the front pocket on her armor. Carefully she pulls the cork and dumps it into the vat. She knows the little amount, diluted in mead, won’t be lethal to people. Still she smirks, knowing the captain of the guard is in for quite the surprise. 

She lets the lid down gently. Though she is alone, there’s no need to cause too much noise. It makes for a bad thief after all.

She pulls the key off the hook, lets herself out, and then pockets the key. She never knows, she may have to break back in one day. Picking the lock isn’t hard, but having the key sure is quicker.

Back inside Honningbrew, she tells Sabjorn that the job is finished. He sends her away, hissing, “Can’t you see Commander Caius is standing right there. I’ll handle your payment later.”

Mabrel feigns annoyance of her own, but takes a seat at the little table in the corner. She puts her back to the wall and waits. She pulls out the old lunatic’s journal and thumbs through the pages in idle curiosity as Commander Caius and Sabjorn chat.

When the Commander coughs after the first sip, Mabrel hides the slight curl to her lips. The satisfaction of a job well done.

Sabjorn is escorted out and the brewery falls into Mallus’ hands. Everything goes exactly as planned. Once the door closes behind Sabjorn and the Captain, Mabrel closes the book and stands from her seat. 

Amid his aspirations of turning the place into Black-Briar Meadery West, she asks him about the rest of their arrangement. “Right, you should probably check his office. He usually kept all the important documents there.”

Mabrel nods and goes to retrieve the information from Sabjorn’s office. Just as Mallus instructed, she finds a slip of parchment in a dresser drawer. She unfolds it and reads:

_Sabjorn,_  
_Within the enclosed crate, you’ll find the final payment. As we discussed, Honningbrew Meadery should now begin brewing mead at full production. In regards to your concerns about interference from Maven Black-Briar, I can assure you that I’ll do everything in my power to keep her assets and her cronies at bay. This is the beginning of a long and successful future for both of us._

There is no signature. Just the same little symbol at the top of the page that she found on Goldenglow’s bill. Tracing her fingers across it, it looks like a dagger in front of a circular ink-black circle. This is the second time she’s seen it and something doesn’t set well in her gut. 

She folds the note back into its neat little square and pockets it in her armor. To the right of the door she notices the decanter: bottled in delicate gold that spirals around the whole bottle. The glass a rich amber to highlight its features. The dovah inside of her rears its head. It is delicate, beautiful, and obviously worth some gold. She flexes her fingers and quickly looks down the stairs. She watches, looking to see that Mallus isn’t watching. Quickly, she swipes the decanter off the desk and places it into her pack. 

She smiles slightly to herself as she walks down the stairs. Perhaps she has her inner dovah to thank for her chosen life’s work. The dragons she slayed atop mountains often collected things of worth: gold, weapons, gem stones, and jewelry. They would never stray far from their dwellings, always coming back to their word walls and treasures. Maybe she has her dovah soul to thank for why she’s been drawn to shiny objects of worth like a common magpie all her life.

Furthermore, she thinks of Delvin and the bee statue she had swiped from Goldenglow. Perhaps he’ll be interested in the decanter as well. Otherwise, she’ll sell it to Tonilia.

“By the way, if you’re ever in the area and need anything fenced, you just let me know.” Mallus says as she walks back into the front of the meadery.

She bids farewell to Mallus and heads out the door into the early afternoon. It’s a long road back to Riften. The road to the south through the mountains may be quicker, but she has a shill job in Windhelm to complete too. 

So she walks towards the bridge and the road to the north.

* * *

“Not half bad,” Vex says when Mabrel reports a job well done. “Here’s your payment.” 

Mabrel takes the gold. “Do you have anything else lined up?” 

“I have a burglary job in Solitude and a sweep job in Whiterun. Take your pick.”

“I’ll take the sweep job,” she replies and Vex gives her the details. 

On her way to the Cistern, Delvin waves her over. “Pull up a seat,” he says. Mabrel does, sitting in the open chair beside him. “Nice work on picking up the decanter by the way. You have a good eye for things, which is what I think will make this next job quite fun for you, if you’re up for it?” 

“I’m listening,” Mabrel replies.

“Sometimes we like to remind a city that we mean business, so we hit it hard. The job is quite simple really, just steal whatever you can until we’ve made an impression. Nothing specific, and hey, I’ll even let you keep what you take. So, you up for it?” 

“Sounds good. What city do you want to send the message?” 

“Windhelm,” Delvin says. “A few things though before you go: keep your blade clean and don’t get caught and tossed in jail. It’s only a message if they never know what hit them. Make it clear that we're always in the shadows. And don’t even think about rifling through the houses that are marked protected.” 

Mabrel nods. “Sounds easy enough.” 

“That’s what I like to hear,” Delvin replies with a smile. “Also, word on the street is that you found another note with our mysterious thorn-in-our-side’s symbol.” 

“Yeah, I did,” Mabrel replies and leans back in her chair. “Any ideas who would be bold enough to undermine the Guild’s operations?”

“None that come to mind. But I’ll tell you, it’s probably more of this curse.” 

“How do you figure that?” 

“We finally start getting jobs coming in again and suddenly someone starts trying to sabotage the last of our big operations? Nah, can’t just be a coincidence.” Delvin replies. 

Mabrel’s brow creases just slightly. “Could be someone trying to start up a rival guild. They could be trying to take our contacts from us to bleed us dry.” She offers.

“Maybe, but I keep an ear to the ground and I’d hear something about a rival guild forming.” Delvin says. He crosses his arms across his chest. 

It’s when Brynjolf enters the Flagon and spots her. “Mercer is looking for you, lass.”

“I’ll be right there. See you later Delvin, I’ll let you know how the bedlam job goes.” She stands from her seat and begins to walk towards the bookcase that hides the entrance to the Cistern. Behind her, she hears Brynjolf pull up her chair; the legs scratching across the floor. 

She pulls the switch as Brynjolf showed her – as she has been doing for weeks now – and walks to the Cistern. Past the door she spots Mercer at his desk and approaches.

"Ah, there you are," Mercer says, not bothering to look up from the papers spread across his desk. From his tone alone, Mabrel knows whatever job he has for her will be quite the pain in the ass.

And that she better not fuck it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I love that detail of the hidden door when you first join the Guild. I wish they used it more instead of it being a one-and-open-forever thing.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s on her way to Solitude that Mabrel first meets him. Dressed in red and black; from the tips of his pointed shoes to the twin bells decorating the pointed flaps upon his hat, the stranger stands out to her.

She keeps her hood up, walks with her head down trying to pass without drawing attention to herself. 

“Wait!” The man cries as she passes. She pauses, turns slightly to indicate she’s listening. “Perhaps a kindly stranger will help poor Cicero and his sweet mother?”

“What’s the problem?” she asks despite herself. She has a long walk up north to Solitude.

“It’s my wheel! Damnedest wagon wheel! It just popped right off!” He pleads with her to fix it. He needs to get to Falkreath to bury his mother. Mabrel is no wheelwright though. When she can’t fix it, he directs her to Loreius and his farm. He says that Loreius refuses to help him. But if she can get him help, he’ll reward her in coin. 

Mabrel is not one to refuse reward, especially one in coin. So she walks up the path to the farm. 

She finds Loreius sitting on his deck, overlooking the road. “Oh for the love of Mara, what now?”

The way he scowls, Mabrel decides to play the innocent card. “Hello good sir, I’m on my way to Dawnstar and upon the road I met a traveler in need of having his cart fixed.” 

“The jester? Crazy fool’s already asked me about five times. Seems he’s not satisfied with my answer.” 

“And why not?” Mabrel asks. 

The farmer scoffs. “Why can’t he just leave us alone? I’ve already given him my answer.”

“I’m not sure I understand, sir. I’m sure he’ll pay you…” she says, deciding to change tactics. Coin usually sways the unsure. 

“Pay me? You think this is about money?” He snaps. “He’s completely out of his head. Have you not heard him speak? He’s suspicious. He’s transporting some giant box. He says he’s taking his mother to be buried. Mother my eye.” He sneers. “There could be anything in that box: war contraband, weapons, or skooma. I’m not getting involved in that.” 

“He’s a stranger who needs help.” Mabrel insists. She’s not entirely sure why. This seems hardly worth the handful of gold she’ll get. But perhaps it is her pride, or just wanting to see if she can get her way.

“We’re in the middle of a war,” he says, eyes narrowing deeper. Almost disbelieving that he’s even having this conversation. “There hasn’t been a merry man in these parts for at least a hundred years. No, it’s all way too suspicious for me.”

“I think he’s a man in need of some help.” Mabrel replies, leaning into her words. “Fixing his wheel is the simple solution, he’ll leave you be instead of hanging around the edge of your farm.” 

“Or I can call the guard,” Loreius replies. 

Of all his venom at the man at the end of his road, there is no mistaking the sincerity of his words. She has no doubt that given the opportunity, Loreius will involve the Guard. Getting caught up in something with a hold’s guards, now that’s the last thing she wants. Mabrel sizes him up, and she catches the slightest glimpse of a chain around his neck poking up from under his tunic. She’s willing to bet it’s an amulet to one of the Divines. Farmers don’t usually wear pieces of silver and gold, even under their clothes. 

She takes the gamble. “He’s a poor soul in need of aid. He’s probably grieving the loss of his mother if he’s traveling to Falkreath to bury her. Arkay smiles on those who help in times of grief. Please, do the right thing.”

“And just who in Mara’s name are you?” He sneers. “Coming here and telling me my business? And for what? To help a – a – fool?” 

“You know you should help him.” Mabrel insists. “What kind of man are you to turn away when someone needs help.”

“Look I…” He says and falters. Sighs. “Yes you’re right. Feller might be nuts, but bottom line is he needs help. I’m sorry for my uneighborly reaction. If you talk to Cicero, be sure to tell him I’ll be down shortly. I just have to go get my tools.”

Mabrel smiles, thanks him kindly and waves as she heads back down the road. She smiles privately to herself. They don’t call her honeyed-tongued for nothing.

She passes the message along to the jester. In his cheer he hands her a pouch of “shiny, clinky coins.” Its gold she’s happy to pocket. She turns to head back up the road, back to her original task.

Passing the wagon again she feels a shiver run up her spine. She looks back and sees nothing out of the ordinary. She pulls her hood back up.  
It’s nothing more than the wind, she thinks. She walks the road north towards Dawnstar.

She still has that fishing job to complete before she heads towards Solitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double chapter Friday! This is a rather short chapter, so I figured I could post it too.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s not the most ideal way she’s ever shadowed someone: submerged in ice-cold cave water. 

She comes to the surface for a breath of air before sinking back down to hide in the shadows cast along the edge of the cave. Hired thugs patrol the paths above her. She could take them out, one-by-one, but it’s a risky gamble. One wrong move – a body found, a shout, being spotted on the edge of a shadow – and they’ll sound the alarm.

So for now Mabrel swims her way past them. Until she comes upon a dead end. Small boats are moored at a makeshift pier. Mabrel creeps along the shallowing edge of the cavern wall just in the edge of the flickering torch cast shadows. She comes up for air again and surveys the area ahead of her.

A catwalk leads to an upper ledge, built out of the natural stonework of the cavern. There are crates, barrels, and chests lining a series of shelves against the back of the cave. She sits, waiting, counting. Four guards and Gulum-Ei. The odds aren’t terrible. She’s survived far worse after all.

She pulls a bottle from her pouch. The liquid inside is a milky white: Ice wraith teeth, vampire dust, and luna moth wings. A potion of invisibility, if she’s brewed it correctly. She pulls the cork with her teeth and quietly slips it into the palm of her hand while her fingers hold the bottle by the neck. She tips it to her lips and drinks. 

She gags on the taste but pushes onward. Potions always taste like shit. Once the bottle is drained she sits, waits, and watches her hand begin to turn transparent before her eyes. When she can no longer see her hand at all, she begins to slowly wade to shore. She slowly emerges then quickly works her way to the catwalk.

One guard stands with his back to her, she pulls her dagger and creeps up ever so slowly. Then she pounces, her free hand covering his mouth as her blade delivers a metallic kiss to his neck. There’s a surprised mumble, and then he’s falling limp. Mabrel guides his body to the ground, careful not to make a sound. 

She looks down at her hand, can just barely see the outline of her fingers beginning to show again. She sheaths her blade and draws the bow from her back. Quietly she pulls an arrow from her quiver, lines the Dwarven tip of it with her target. She’ll need to be fast.

She lets the arrow fly, finding its mark in the exposed clavicle of one bandit’s hide armor. The remaining two guards jump with a start, hands instinctively going to their weapons. Mabrel nocks another arrow and lets it fly: _thump_ into a rib cage. That bandit falls to his knees, the wind taken from his lungs. She lines another shot and the second arrow puts him flat upon the ground. 

“Up there!” The final bandit shouts, pointing an axe up at her outline. He makes a run for the catwalk, but Mabrel still has the upper hand. She draws an arrow, waits for him to round the bend and sends it buried deep in his neck. He collapses midstride, dropping the iron hand axe from his hand.

She nimbly jumps from the ledge, breaking her fall by using the momentum to roll forward. She wastes no time, she stands and pulls another arrow pointed at Gulum-Ei. “Let’s not go calling more guards now.” She says. She knows he can see most of her now, her hands grow less transparent by the second.

“Let’s not be hasty now,” the Argonian says, hands up with palms showing. “I can explain everything.”

“Then talk,” Mabrel says but doesn’t lower her bow; her arrow stays pulled taunt upon the string.

“This isn’t as bad as it seems. I was going to tell Mercer about everything, honestly!” Gulum-Ei replies and all Mabrel can see is a hound belly up and begging. “Please, he’ll have me killed!” 

“You put me through a lot of trouble,” she replies. “Tell me first and then I’ll decide if you get to walk out of here.” 

She watches him flinch. “It’s Karliah! Her name is Karliah.” 

Her eyes narrow, “You say that name like I should know it?”

“Mercer never told you?” Gullum-Ei replies. 

“Enough stalling. Tell me what I need to know, my arms are growing tired. I might just slip.”

“Karliah is the thief responsible for murdering the previous Guild Master, Gallus.” The words jumble from his lips. “Now she’s after Mercer.”

“And you’re helping her?”

“Help? No, no!” His reply is instant. His words raising in pitch and wavering just slightly. “Look, I didn’t even know it was her until after she contacted me. Please you have to believe me?”

“And where is Karliah now?” 

“I don’t know. When I asked her where she was going she just muttered ‘Where the end began’. Here, take the Goldenglow Estate Deed as proof.” He fishes the slip of paper from his tunic. 

Mabrel can see the quiver in his hands. The tension in her arm begins to go slack, her arrow stays within her hand as she takes the parchment from Gullum-Ei. She watches him physically deflate, some sense of safety settling into him. “When you speak to Mercer, tell him I’m worth more to him alive.”

Mabrel casts him a sidelong glance. “Will do,” she says while making a show of putting the deed in her pouch. She makes no move to put her arrow back in her quiver.

“There’s an exit back here, pull the lever and it’ll take you past a cave and out to sea.” Gullum-Ei reveals.

Mabrel nods, looking to the lever he’s pointed out. “I don’t need to tell you that I will find you if you’re lying to me.” 

“I’m not lying, I swear. It’s our dock where we bring the goods in through.”

Again she takes his tone for one of sincerity. Looks like she's not quite finished swimming just yet.

* * *

“Interested in a map?” Mabrel asks Delvin, pulling up a chair at his table.

Delvin doesn’t look right away, pretends to be busy with his drink. “Depends on the map.” Mabrel still catches the slight tick upward at the corner of his mouth before he drinks.

“It’s an East Empire Shipping map,” she replies as she takes the rolled parchment from her pouch and lays it on his table. It catches Delvin’s interest at least and she watches him unfurl the map. He scans it, a practiced eye looking for whatever it is he knows marks it as authentic. 

“Nice find,” he finally says and leans back in his chair. “I’ve got a buyer whose been looking for something like this. I’ll give you 300 for it.” 

“Deal,” Mabrel replies and smiles slightly as the gold exchanges hands.

“You’ve been doing well kid. I appreciate you stopping to chat with me first, but don’t you have a report for Mercer? You shouldn’t keep him waiting.” 

“I was on my way in. Boss can wait a couple of extra minutes, can’t he?” Mabrel replies with a playful smirk. Still she stands from the chair. “Catch you later, Delvin. I’ll be back to pick up an extra job after seeing Mercer.” 

“I’ll hold you to that.” Delvin replies.

“Beat it, kid,” she hear’s Dirge say from behind her. Curiously, she looks and the Flagon’s bouncer is turning away a small child. A young boy.

“I have a job! I can pay!” The kid says, high pitched and whiny.

Dirge snorts at that. “I doubt that. We don’t sort out bullying or whatever other nonsense you think we do.” Dirge states firmly.

“Well well, what seems to be the problem here?” Delvin says, standing up from his table. 

She knows they don’t need onlookers. She has a report to give too. So she turns her back and walks to the bookcase. Just out of sight of the kid she hits the switch and walks to where the Cistern door is and closes the hidden entrance behind her.


	5. Chapter 5

Her mouth tastes like tundra cotton and her head is foggy as though stuffed with beehive husk. She sifts and looks up at a ceiling she does not recognize. She sits up suddenly, taking in her surroundings. The place reeks of death. 

“Ah, you’re finally awake.” A voice says in the corner of the room. Perched atop a bookshelf is a woman, clad in black and red leather and a shrouded mask over her face. Then she explains the arrangement. A Brotherhood Contract must be repaid: a life for a life. She tells her to kill one of three in the room.

Mabrel observes each of them.

Grelod had been a messy kill, even Mabrel has to admit that. She killed the old hag in the supply closet, out of sight of the children, before taking flight. Too bad she had turned at the wrong time, saw her dagger and screamed before the end. 

It was foolish. To kill someone in the city that housed the Guild. What in oblivion was she thinking? 

But there had been something when she pulled the dagger out in that little closet. A pull at her second of hesitation. She is no assassin, not really, but she had wanted to kill the old woman.

It wasn’t like killing the bandits and thugs littering the road. 

Mabrel pulls the dagger from her belt now, in the dark cabin, and considers the three before her.

The quivering sellsword, the indignent old woman, or the unremorseful Kahjiit? 

She takes the tentative steps forward. Her fingers flex around the handle of the blade. Her other hand grabs the bagged head, pulls the fabric and the hair underneath. She exposes throat and drives the tip of the blade in. In one quick swipe, she lays his throat open. There’s a wince, a gurgled cry of pain, and then the body begins to slump under its own weight. Mabrel lets go, watching the Nord collapse on the floor.

At the sound, the woman and Kahjiit begin to squirm a bit more. No, this is real; Mabrel wants to tell them. It’s no scene set to merely scare them. She pulls a small cloth and cleans her blade. She returns to the woman sitting atop the bookcase as the remaining two quiver in fear. 

“It’s not terribly often a member of the Guild shares an affinity with the organization I represent. Our two organizations have had dealings in the past, we’re on rather good terms.” The woman informs Mabrel. “So, I’ll extend an invitation to my own family. Deep in Falkreath’s forest, you’ll find a Black Door. It will pose to you a question. All you have to do is answer, ‘Silence, my brother.’ Then the Sanctuary will be open to you and your new life can begin.” 

“Is this a one way offer?” Mabrel asks. “Do I have to give up my place in the Guild to join the Brotherhood?” 

“No,” the woman replies simply. “I’ll expect you to check in for contracts, but you can certainly split your time between us both.” 

“You’ve given me a lot to think about. Thank you.” Mabrel replies.

“I do hope to see you again soon.”

As soon as she opens the door and steps into the marsh of Hjaalmarch, Mabrel feels something in her stir.

* * *

At home in the Cistern, Mabrel crashes into her bed. The one that has become familiar over the several months since her joining. She toes her boots off, leaving them on the edge of her bed. 

She stares at the rocky ceiling. She doesn’t sleep, her thoughts buzzing with recent events. The issue of Karliah’s reappearance and her invitation to the Dark Brotherhood. Cynric Endell is soaking his feet across the room from her. So she reaches over the side of her bed and begins to pull her boots on. She walks over, sits down beside him.

“What’s going on?” Cynric asks in greeting. 

“Not much, I’m curious about what you told me about your previous line of work.” 

“What do you want to know?” He replies casually.

“You mentioned the Brotherhood,” she replies, watching his reaction. “I was wondering what made you choose the Guild over them.” 

“I like lockpicking. I’m good at it. And at the end of the day, I can make more coin doing work for the Guild than I ever could as an assassin. Plus, this is safer than what the Brotherhood deals with. I was only ever good for jailbreaking with them. After the years I spent in High Rock for the last failed attempt, I figure I’m better off testing my luck with the Guild.” Cynric replies honestly. It’s what she likes about him. 

“Mind if I ask after the sudden curiosity?” Cynric asks. 

“My path crossed with them on the last job,” she replies, not entirely honest herself. 

Cynric nods. “Ah, poor fool got hit twice as hard then. Oh well, at least you were there to clean out the place of valuables. It’s better than letting his worldly treasures go to waste, eh?” 

Mabrel smiles. “Definitely.” 

“How’d the guy die?” 

“Slit throat,” Mabrel answers. She need not say the blade was hers. “Pretty clean actually.” 

“Usually they are, though sometimes they pay extra for painful and grisly.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, one time they contracted me to kill a man in the Imperial Prison. Their old path in had been sealed up, so I got the job instead. They said they were paid double and to make the death extra messy.” 

“Did you?” Mabrel asks.

“Yeah,” Cynric replies. He looks back up at her, as though searching her face. Whatever it is he’s looking for, Mabrel can’t tell if he finds it or finds a lack of whatever it is. “If the Brotherhood tells you to carry out a job a certain way, you better well do it. They always find out.” He eventually finishes. 

Mabrel nods again, feigning a moment of thinking. 

“You could always talk to good old Delvin about them if you’re curious. He’s done financial work for them among other things. He’s on pretty good terms with their leader.”  
“I’ll remember that if any more questions come up. Thanks again, Cynric.” She replies, standing up. 

“Don’t forget to buy extra lockpicks from Tonilia. She just got more in stock and they go fast around here.” Cynric offers.

Mabrel smiles. “Will do. Good luck on your next job out there.” 

“You too, kid.” Cynric says.


	6. Chapter 6

Mabrel walks back into Windhelm with the silver locket in her front pocket. The Summerset Shadows headquarters was laughable. Uttering Hills Cave was no Cistern. It was no different than the rest of the common bandit forts that dotted the landscape. 

The Thieves Guild of Skyrim has standards. It was the first line in the sand Brynjolf had given her: no killing. Keep your blade clean. These Summerset Shadows weren’t even up to the Guild’s standards: what they couldn’t get through subterfuge, they took with the edge of a blade.

No better than common bandits indeed. 

She’d left it on fire. The flags of the rival guild – if it could even be called that, the comparison seemed an insult – left burning in the wind in her wake.

The wind whips at her face and she pulls her hood tighter, trying to make the fabric reach around her face. Trudging through the snow in the dead of night in Windhelm, and in the middle of Frost Fall, she probably should’ve prepared better. But this is the last bit of the job, and then she can go find respite in Candlehearth Hall. Or perhaps, better yet, begin the journey back to Riften.

Despite the overwhelming cold taking up most of her thoughts, she still thinks back to her encounter with the Brotherhood three weeks prior. That woman had given her an invitation to something she didn’t wholeheartedly want to shy away from. Something about that little test in the cabin in Hjaalmarch had awakened something within her.

The Thieves Guild told her to keep her blade clean. Could she really choose to do both? She still killed Grelod and that Nord. She isn’t Brotherhood, not officially yet, so what does that make her kills.

Bad blood on her blade that she knows the Guild would punish her for if they found out about it. 

It is a short walk through the city once she’s past the gates. Upon coming to the House of Clan Cruel-Sea, Mabrel walks around to the back. Out of sight of the main road and any guards who might fancy a patrol down from the stone quarter. Pulling a lockpick from her belt she loops it under the lock of the shudders. A natural reflex at this point, the window reveals itself to her. She slides it along the top the window pane. She waits for the tell-tale click and then begins to gingerly lift the window up. Then she hoists herself up and slips through the window.

Torsten happens to be sitting at the table near the lit fireplace. A bottle of mead open in front of him. Mabrel clears her throat loudly to signal her arrival. Torsten gives a slight jump, whirls in her direction, then relaxes slightly at the sight of her. 

Mabrel retrieves the locket from her pocket, and gingerly hands it over. The chain drapes into to Torsten’s open palm, then locket comes to rest in his hand, and then after a moment’s hesitation his fingers close around it.

“It pains me to see this locket,” Torsten sighs. “But I’m glad it’s back where it belongs. Tell Delvin that if he desires to have my support for the Thieves Guild in Windhelm, he’s got it.”

Mabrel nods. “I’ll pass the message along to Delvin. Enjoy the rest of your night.” She turns to leave, but Torsten asks something else of her.

"Did they pay?" He asks. "The Summerset Shadows. Did you make them bleed?" 

She looks back at him. "Yes. I killed everyone who was there in their camp and set it ablaze afterwards." 

Torsten nods. "Good. Good." Then she’s leaving back out the window, back into the night of Windhelm.

It’s a short walk to Candlehearth Hall. Inside the Inn, Mabrel pulls up a bar stool. She orders a small meal. ‘I am a thief,’ she thinks to herself. She has bloodied her blade on bandits and highway men: men who have attacked her first. She is sneaky, yes, but she is no assassin. 

The bow on her back and blade strapped to her hip are tools of defense, not tools of murder.

But the way he asked if she had made them bleed, she cannot deny the small spark of _pride_ that bloomed within her as she confirmed the deaths of the men there. She cannot deny the satisfaction.

Eventually the meal comes: a wedge of cheese and heel of bread with a mug of mead. Mabrel eats, then rents a bed for ten gold.

She finds her way to her room, closes the door behind her. She pulls her boots off and lays down in bed. She’ll wake early and be on the road again before dawn. She has other work to do. Perhaps Delvin will have another numbers job when she gets back. Those are always fun, she thinks with a small smile.

Upstairs the local bard plays the flute. It’s a bit of a haunting melody, but lulls her to sleep all the same.


	7. Chapter 7

At first she thinks its the poison. The horrible thumping of her heartbeat in her ears. But as she feels her fingertips twitch and curl under her control, she starts to wonder if it’s the shock. 

It was Mercer. He killed Gallus. 

‘And now he’s killed me,’ she thinks. She hears herself cough. Can taste copper in her mouth. 

It hurts.

It’s almost funny.

So many times she’s escaped death and now - here in this old Nord tomb - she was going to die. It wasn’t Alduin, the world eater, that killed her. It wasn’t the delve into Blackreach for an Elder Scroll. It wasn’t Helgen or any of the other dozen events that could’ve easily have killed her.

No, it was Mercer Frey. The Guildmaster of the Thieves Guild who ran her through with his sword. 

It’s almost funny.

* * *

Her mother dies the day of her birth. One enters the world as another leaves: a life for a life.

A day marked in her Father’s grief and bittersweet joy. The death of a wife and the birth of a daughter under the sign of the shadow. 

He names her Mabrel.

* * *

She’s eight when she comes to call Bruma her new home and her Father remarries.

Her new mother is a woman named Raena with corn husk hair. A Nord like her Father and as cold as the Jerall Mountain air.

It does not take her long to miss her old home in Bravil. She misses the lucky old lady statue and does not enjoy the trade of towns for the sight of the statue of the hero who ended the Oblivion crisis. 

In Bruma the frost bites at her nose and the air seems to freeze her to her very bones. Her Father says she’ll adapt soon, her new mother says to quit her whining. 

She does not like the Thalmor who patrol the city and stand at the Temple. A temple whose old name nobody speaks anymore. The priests have shrines to each of the Divines, but sometimes some of the older Nords say it is disgraceful to Talos when they know the Thalmor cannot hear.

She is not there a full year before her brother, Rothor, is born. Named like a true Nord, as her new mother puts it. 

It’s the same year the guards clear out a sanctuary belonging to the Dark Brotherhood. They put the bodies on display, a gruesome warning, and her Father tells her that they are already safer in Bruma because of it.

* * *

She is eleven when she becomes an apprentice and her fingers are always stained. Her days are long in the apothecary, pouring over tomes and practicing the craft of alchemy.

It seems that nobody can teach her magic. She cannot call even the dullest of embers to her hands nor summon the most basic of familiars. She does not have her Mother’s gift, much to her second mother’s relief. The Breton blood ends at her looks, it seems. 

But she finds her worth in potions and her Father is proud.

* * *

She is thirteen when she loses her Father in the heart of winter. A fever that her potions could not cure.

Did her medicine help or just prolong his death? The question tears at her heart as she sits in the temple listening to the rites of the newly dead. Words of Arkay: life, death, and acknowledgement of grief. 

Three months pass before Raena kicks her out onto the streets. The apprenticeship costs gold that neither has. The woman has Rothor to care for, still too young to work, and there is no room for kinship with some half-blood Breton who isn’t hers. 

On the streets, she finds that there is no charity to be found in a land still recovering from the Great War. 

She finds work – chopping wood, running errands, and sweeping floors at the Inn – but the jobs do not pay enough. She swipes food from the kitchens and market stalls – an apple, a carrot, a potato – when she thinks no one is looking.

* * *

She is sixteen when she leaves Bruma. 

Travels to the Imperial City based on the offering of a Dunmer. She goes because she has something of a reputation now.

It’s not just scraps of food her fingers swipe. No longer stained with alchemy, they’re sticky from all the gold she slips from unaware pockets.

But she leaves for the capital because the stranger spoke of a place in a guild for her.  
  
She leaves because she has nothing to lose.

* * *

She’s twenty when they start to call her Shadowfoot. 

Over four years and she’s been all over Cyrodill. She’s learned much from her time in the guild.  
  
A bow is slung across her back and she’s a decent shot. She can shoot an arrow better than the magic she could never summon from her blood anyway.

She can work her way around the toughest of locks. Finds breaking and entering easier than pulling from pockets in the crowded streets.

She earns septims: swiped from strangers and exchanged from fences. Earns a silver tongue as gold passes into the right hands. Earns a reputation cloaked in shadow.

She lives up to the stars she was born under.

* * *

She’s twenty three when the guild disbands. A crack down on crime that leaves many members behind bars and dead. Fences close shop, the gold stops flowing.

She’s twenty three when she leaves Cyrodiil behind, crossing the border into Skyrim from over the Jerall Mountains. There’s an old contact that might be able to help her in the ancestral homeland of her father.

She doesn’t stop in Bruma on her way. She decides she doesn’t have time for the icy city she never felt at home in.

(She really doesn’t want to see Rothor, now just shy of being as old as she was when she left. There is no desire to see the half-brother who grew watching her struggle on the streets.) 

She doesn’t look back. Just travels onward with food rations in her pack and arrows in her quiver. 

She’s twenty three when she walks into an Imperial ambush.

She’s twenty three when she’s sentenced to death.

She’s twenty three when she sees the black dragon and fire rains from the sky.

* * *

“Easy,” she hears a voice tell her as she tries to sit up; and her world pitches sideways in a swirl. There’s a foul taste in her mouth and she tries to keep the bile down.

Looking up, she sees the reddish eyes of a dark elven woman looking down at her. Karliah, the name comes to her as the woman explains why she’s not dead. 

It looks like she still has a few things left to do.


End file.
